L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

Comforting, lending strength, Luther’s hand rested on her thigh. “And you being a champion of all the little people, delivered your unique form of retribution?”

Her muscles tightened all over again. “Mock me all you want. I don’t care.”

“Actually, that was my asinine way of accepting you for who you are. You are a champion, Gaby. A defender. You know and care about Marie, but you’d have done the same for anyone you considered an underdog. I know that.”

“Well, whatever you want to call it, I pulverized him.”

“Describe pulverize, please.”

“His arm was broken beneath his elbow.”

“You’re sure?”

“The bone was sticking out.”

Luther made a face. “Definitely broken.”

“When I finished with him, he was pretty bloodied and battered. I only stopped because he couldn’t fight anymore. But before I left him, I told him that if he ever again hurt anyone to get his jollies, I’d cut out his heart and remove his balls.”

Luther winced. “But you didn’t kill him.”

“No, I didn’t.” She picked at a sweet blade of grass, brought it to her mouth. “There were a lot of people there. Jimbo, the hookers, shop owners, renters. Any spectacle is entertaining.”

“What happened to the guy?”

“Jimbo had a friend take him home where we both assumed he’d have someone take him to the hospital.”

“And you think it’s possible that our guy got to him instead, and killed him to set you up?”

Dropping back against the rough tree trunk, Gaby shook her head. “I think he killed him because he gets his rocks off that way. Setting me up is just a bonus.”

While contemplating that, Luther began stroking the bare skin of her leg, over her knee, higher on her thigh. “You’re especially sensitive about anyone hurting women, aren’t you?”

“Or kids.”

Using his hold on her knee for leverage, Luther sat up, moved closer. Whenever he touched her, the size of his hands struck her. He was a large man all over—a large, capable man who helped society without walking the fine line between corruption and morality.

He cupped her face, making her feel small, fragile.

“Tell me, Gaby. Is that because, at some point in your life, someone hurt you?”

Luther saw the memories slipping through her thoughts, and he saw her reticence to share with him. He’d hurt her with his careless words, and now he’d have to make things right.

If he could.

“Gaby?” Catching the edge of her chin, he brought her face around. “Will you forgive me for losing my temper and saying things I didn’t mean?”

In the most relevant show of vulnerability he’d ever witnessed from Gaby, she avoided his gaze.

The moonlight limned her features. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. It was a romantic night—but with Gaby, that’d mean very little.

She glanced back at him. “Are you sure you didn’t mean them?”

“Positive. It’s just that I’m human, and sometimes prone to the same failings as any other man. I get pissed, and idiotic garbage spews from my mouth. It’s just venting, honey, not my real feelings.”

Gaby frowned. “So what are your real feelings? And be honest. I can take it.”

He cupped her chin again. “I think you’re one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah right.” She made a sound of disdain. “Did you forget my lack of education?”

“With you, it doesn’t matter. You’re smart, sharp, perceptive, and savvy. And for all your lack of formal schooling, you have something better. You have street smarts.”

“So then why were you so pissed?”

Luther searched for the right words to help her understand. Gaby was smart, but she lacked the social skills that would enable her to understand the give and take, the ups and downs, of a relationship.

“I get insulted when you want to protect me, just as any six-foot, three-inch tall man would be. I lashed out—but I didn’t mean it.”

“So you know I could kick your ass?”

Luther stalled. Damn it, she always had to push him, but for once, it didn’t infuriate him so much as exasperate him. Trying for judicious neutrality, he said, “I know you’re exceptionally well trained in fighting. And that’s another question—who trained you?”

She shook her head in pity. “Poor Luther. You persist in trying to find logical explanations for every facet of my being.”

“Logic is good.”

“Sure. But it doesn’t apply to me, because no one trained me. I just know what to do and when to do it. Don’t ask me how I know, though.”

If she lacked formal training, then had a lifestyle of abuse fashioned her reflexes? He hated to think so, but . . . “And my other question?”

When she started playing with the grass again, Luther forced her to meet his gaze. He felt a fine tension in her that hadn’t been there moments before.

As gentle as he could be, he said, “You spent a lot of time in the foster care system. Not everyone is in it to help kids in need. And you had special concerns . . .”

“Guess you just answered you own question, huh?”

Hearing her say it devastated Luther. The thought of anyone hurting a child, but especially someone as sensitive as Gaby, made him want to rail against the world and all the injustices.

Uneasy, she chafed her arms and frowned. Somehow Luther knew it wasn’t the subject matter that affected her— but something extraneous, something unforeseen and exigent.

Reacting to her shift of demeanor, Luther went on alert. “What’s wrong?”

In a voice unrecognizable, she whispered, “I feel sick.”

Praying for a mundane cause, Luther asked, “Have you eaten?”

“No . . . but that’s not it.” She went to her feet in one swift, lithe movement, and turned a circle, seeking everywhere. “Something’s wrong.”

With the fine hairs on his nape at attention, Luther stood. “Tell me what you’re feeling Gaby.”

“Shhh. Let me think.” She stepped away from him, into the longest fingers of a streetlamp, and he saw her features, watched them sharpening, her muscles coiling.

She fascinated him, and she scared him. “Gaby . . .”

She took two steps toward the street—and a bedraggled boy appeared. He limped, crying, coming toward them.

Gaby poised for attack.

“What the hell?” Incomprehension smothered Luther’s unease. “Gaby, what are you doing?”

“It’s him.”

The kid’s clothes were torn, his arms wrapped around himself. Luther could hear him sniffling. “Listen to me, Gaby,” he said, trying to reach her while she grew more remote.

Before his eyes, she swelled with purpose, with depredatory intent. The air around them crackled with impending disaster.

“He’s a kid, Gaby.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She?” Luther looked into Gaby’s eyes—and saw a great void of emotion. It was as if she didn’t see him, didn’t see the kid, but saw something, someone, altogether different.

Spooked, he tried to take Gaby’s arm, and she shook him off so easily, his alarm escalated. He didn’t want to hurt her.

But he didn’t want her to hurt the kid either. “Gaby, stop.”

Instead, the kid stopped. And contrary to his abused appearance, he . . . smiled.

Caught up in a bizarre dream, Gaby’s dream , Luther faltered—and something stuck him in the neck. Not the bite of an insect, he knew, but not a knife blade either.

He twisted around only to see an elderly gentleman stepping back out of reach. Everything blurred.

Oh fuck.

Gaby had known, had seen it all, but he hadn’t trusted her. Fool.

His knees gave out and he fell into a black abyss.